Cabin Pressure: Manors, heels and murder
by ko-writes
Summary: Douglas Richardson PI is divorced and in risk of poverty when Martin Crieff, a housekeeper, knocks on the door of his agency on behalf of their employer, Carolyn Knapp-Shappey and her son Arthur with a murder case. Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Historical Inaccuracy, Murder, Detectives, Genderqueer Character, Stalking.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Douglas stared out of his one window in his upstairs office, the shutters shadowing his face. The bodies of stubbed out cigarettes lay, bent and smoked to the stub, in the small glass ashtray. Cars swerved and honked their horns on the road below, reminding him of the bad part of town he was in.

He had a tumbler of apple-juice-parading-as-whiskey in his hand and swirled it, creating a small, amber whirlpool. It was what he called the Richardson special. Time was when he'd have the real stuff, but he hadn't for eight years - for the better, really.

That was back when his little detective agency was a fully functional business, not an office he sat in all day and slept in all night, waiting for clients that didn't come.

It was the divorce - the last one - that did it. That little tart of a woman managed to drag his name through the mud. He thought it quite strange that she was unfaithful and yet managed to make herself the victim.

He was thrown out his dark thoughts and memories by a small knock at the door.

"Door's open," He grunted, voice hoarse from disuse.

A small man stumbled through the door as he opened it, kicking the door by accident and bit down a grimace. He was in a feminine brown trench coat and black trousers with… red heels?

Now Douglas could see their lips were painted with cheap clear lip-gloss.

"Mr Richardson?" They enquired, tucking a stray ginger curl behind their ear, and he nodded, "Thank goodness! I've spent about five hours trying to find your office…" Ah, yes. Douglas' office was above a laundry parlour, so it wasn't the easiest to find. "My name is Martin Crieff and I've come on behalf of my employer, Lady Knapp-Shappey; I'm the housekeeper for her manor house on the other side of Fitton. We'd like to enlist your services."

"What's the case… Uh…" Douglas wasn't quite sure what to say. Sir? Madame?

"Just Martin," Martin supplied, obviously something he was used to, "And I prefer 'they' or 'their' to 'she' or 'he'." Douglas nodded his understanding, and Martin bit their shining lower lip. "The case… Is a murder…"

Douglas perked up. A murder case? "Why me?" He asked.

Martin shrugged, "My employer's instructions, Mr Richardson; I don't pretend to know her motivations behind anything. It may possibly be her son, Arthur; he gave the impression he knew you…"

"Ah, yes; Arthur Shappey. I do seem to remember that clot…" Douglas stated.

"Do not refer to Mr Shappey in that manner, Mr Richardson. He is a friend of mine," Martin folded their arms over their chest.

"How good of a friend?" Douglas asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Mrs Knapp-Shappey has likened us to siblings," Martin answered curtly.

"I think I should speak to your employer…" Douglas placed the tumbler on his small desk and took out another cigarette.

"Thank you, Mr Richardson," Martin nodded, handing him a card with the address, "Thank you." And hurried out.

Douglas turned back to the window to see Martin hailing a taxi. What a strange person Martin Crieff was…


	2. Chapter 2

Another day, another note. It had become a regular occurrence over the last few weeks, but that didn't help the fear they felt staring at that typed note.

 _'You looked lovely in that trench coat yesterday. I dreamt I bent you over the dining room table while you were polishing, hitched it up to your beautiful hips and had my way with you. You wouldn't need to say 'no', I'd take you anyway. That lip-gloss makes me think of slick, shiny rings around my...'_

Martin sighed and pressed the heel of their hands into their eyes, the note fluttering to the floor.

They thought of the other notes.

 _'You're so... exotic...'_

 _'You should cook more often. When you're in the kitchen, in nothing but your petticoat, sweating...'_

 _'I saw you in the bath, all steamy and wet...'_

 _'You belong to ME, don't forget that. If you do I'll teach you a lesson, and that man-whore too!'_

 _'IF I CAN'T HAVE YOU, NO ONE CAN!'_

Martin felt sick as tears stained their rouged cheeks and made their eye makeup run.

Their tearful gaze caught the skirt and blouse that hung on the dark mahogany wardrobe, waiting to be worn, but they didn't feel safe anymore.

On shaking legs, they walked to the small basin of water in the corner of the room, in front of the mirror and scrubbed at their face with their dingy grey flannel.

* * *

As the taxi trundled up the gravel driveway, Douglas stared at the manor house; unfazed by it's size.

Shappey House was like any other manor house you could imagine; cream walls and marble pillars, large windows, gravel paths and climbing flowers; how cliché. Mind, he was rather cliché himself.

As the taxi stopped, he got out and paid the driver before walking up to the house, hopping up the steps. He was in a good mood; decent food was beckoning. Sure, someone was dead but life was for the living and the mighty Douglas Richardson was getting his luck back.

He rang the doorbell and only had to wait a few seconds before the door was opened by the butler.

The butler was a man of average height, a few inches shorter than Douglas, with well-slicked blond hair and a neat moustache. His blue eyes narrowed slightly at Douglas' dusty, slightly faded, formal suit and waistcoat.

"Douglas Richardson, Private Investigator," He introduced himself.

"Oh," The butler seemed to relax at this, "Of course sir; we've been expecting you, do come in," The butler stepped aside to allow Douglas to cautiously enter the house. The interior was the typical marble, gold and rich reds - the standard specs. "M'lady and Arthur are in the drawing room, sir; follow me."

As the butler lead him through the house, Douglas couldn't help but ask with a raised eyebrow, "Does Master Shappey know you address him by his first name?"

"He insists on it, sir," The butler answered curtly, opening a door. The hallway was suddenly flooded with obnoxious jazz music and Douglas made a face of distaste, thoughts being tossed back to the by-gone days of liberal girls and gin and hot piano. The butler's announcement brought him back to the present, "Mr Douglas Richardson."

As Douglas entered the room, he could see it was the drawing room. The master of the house lay on his stomach in front of the radio, staring up at it with large, bright, brown eyes. He was fairly young and wore a fashionable grey suit with a white shirt and vibrant red tie, his hair was brown and gelled in a wavy side-parting.

Lady Knapp-Shappey was a short woman with grey hair scrapped into a bun and a hard as diamonds expression; she was painting a series of picket signs, the current read 'give women the vote'.

"Suffragette?" Douglas inquired, only earning half attention from the lady, but full from the young man.

"Are you not?" She asked, as if it were the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard.

"Mostly, in private," He shrugged.

"We need more men on the street," she sniffed. "But no time for a discussion of politics. Mr Richardson, I believe you were visited by my house keeper, Martin Crieff."

"Indeed." Douglas had thought of little other than Martin since the meeting, he had to admit the interest he had in the young person.

"They told you it was a murder, did they not?"

"They did, but not of whom," Douglas remarked.

"Oh, Martin," Lady Knapp-Shappey rolled her eyes, "The victim was my husband, Gordon."

Douglas trailed his eyes over Lady Knapp-Shappey's purple dress. "Not in mourning?"

"One learns to move on quickly from unpleasant things, the older they get," Lady Knapp-Shappey remarked coldly.

"Surly not the death of a husband?" Douglas' eyebrows shot towards his hairline.

"My father was a mortician, Mr Richardson; death has been part of my life since I was very young," Lady Knapp-Shappey informed, "Arthur, turn off the radio; I don't think the music of Billy Meyers is quite suited for this conversation."

"Sorry, mummy," Arthur apologised, turning off the radio.

"Thank you," Lady Knapp-Shappey nodded, "My husband was found, throat slit, on his back on the kitchen floor yesterday by Martin. Poor thing was rather shaken."

"Yes, I did think that they weren't at ease," Douglas commented, "I must admit that I've been rather looking forward to seeing them more relaxed..."

"You won't have much luck with Martin, they're rather neurotic," Lady Knapp-Shappey commented.

"Mummy, I think we should have some tea; it'll help keep us calm," Arthur requested.

"Very well, give Martin a ding-dong," Lady Knapp-Shappey nodded and Arthur rang the bell.

"How old are you, Master Shappey?" Douglas asked.

"Twenty eight and a half," Arthur smiled proudly, "And call me Arthur, please."

"You seem younger, if you don't mind me saying Arthur," Douglas commented, still able to conduct himself with decorum around the upper class.

"My son does have a youthful vigour," Lady Knapp-Shappey chuckled.

"I don't mind seeming younger at all," Arthur smiled, "I actually quite like it."

The door opened and the housekeeper came rushing in, "Your tea, m'lady." Douglas noticed the change in their clothes; rather than the feminine clothes they were wearing yesterday, they were now wearing a man's suit.

"Ah, that was quick Martin," Carolyn congratulated, taking a sip of, what Douglas could tell from the smell was, rather expensive tea.

"The kettle was already boiled, ma'am," Martin explained. They turned to leave, but noticed Douglas, "Oh, Mr Richardson, here I see."

Douglas could now see their eyes were red-rimmed and their cheeks blotchy. He forced his mouth to work, "Hello again, Martin..."

"Oh, I see, you're confused about the clothes -"

"Martin, you don't have to explain yourself," Lady Knapp-Shappey defended.

"I'm fine, ma'am," Martin soothed, "Well, Mr Richardson; you know how some people are boys, some people are girls?"

"Yes?"

"Well, some people don't necessarily fit in those boxes; I am one of those people..." Martin explained, blush colouring their cheeks.

"Interesting," Douglas smiled reassuringly and Martin let go of the breath they were holding.

"Alright, I think I shall take my leave..." And with that, Martin left.

"Mr Richardson, do you plan to take the case?" Lady Knapp-Shappey inquired.

"Of course, I shall begin my interrogations as soon as possible."

"Brilliant!" Arthur beamed.

"Arthur!" Carolyn chided.

"Sorry, mummy."

* * *

 **Author's note:**

 **A beautiful sketch of Martin can be found here: post/112617574308/i-hope-this-is-alright by justaholmesboy on Tumblr :D (So lovely!)**

 **If I get anything wrong (I know I called Martin a man before, but it was POV Douglas, so I kept the mis-gender to a minimum), just tell me and I'll change it :)**


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